Blue Room

Anonymous
Blue Room The author is 13 years old and is from Virginia. She enjoys writing poetry in her free time (but she’s not pretentious). She also likes reading, drawing, and talking to her friends. Her favorite poets are Derek Jarman and Langston Hughes. Her favorite restaurant is Marugame Monzo in L.A.

“The water receives her.
every day her heart is open to the sound of waves.
always the same sound, the same deafening sound.”

          

The Sleeper by the Edge of the River

 

The water receives her.

 

every day her heart is open to the sound of waves.

always the same sound, the same deafening sound.

her everyday rhythms were coordinated by

the sounds of the waves,

till they filled the marrow in her bones

and she walked, unknowingly, to the beat of the waves

and she moved, unknowingly, to the beat of the waves.

 

she became like a conch shell, and

when you held her next to you,

you could feel her body

quivering with the movement of the waves.

 

the sleeper by the edge of the river….

she made a hammock of the silken water and

the reeds, threaded together to hang in the

night sky, while the latticework of stars above her

acted as a great blanket, because all the world was enveloping her

in bed.

 

my sleeper by the edge of the river.

She holds tiger lilies in her gaze.

 

*

 

she’s a face full of blooming buttercups,

her laugh deep and rich as

those heavy hazelnuts falling from the

hazelnut tree, twirling through the air and

landing on the ground with a soft

thump, impregnating the air with their

amorous ripeness.

her freckles are nutty and brown, the color of

plum blossom branches,

while the flush of her cheeks are like

plum blossoms themselves.

 

her tempestuous eyes hold

sea storms and gales,

men have drowned

and lost their ships,

fallen under those black waters

in those eyes

 

her skin’s fair as the cream from the

top of the bottle,

but she’s got hair black as the bottom of

the coffee pot.

i ran my hands through it once.

it was soft.

like spools of clouds being threaded.

 

she’s an enchantress, my muse, a

something-sweet secret

held high above others….

though, for me,

she brushes aside her billowing clouds of hair, and

hides love in the furrows of her sleeve.

 

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